In Need
by CelebratoryPenguin
Summary: This will be a series of one-shots that show the "doctor" in Dr. John Watson. Drama, friendship, pieces of the past, humorous bits of daily life - all's fair in and around 221B. The T rating is for some serious elements in future chapters.


In Need

Part One: Cast of Characters

...

Sprained ankle, hay fever, headache from eyestrain, ganglion cyst, two bad colds, and a teenaged girl convinced she'd fallen pregnant from kissing.

Compared to combat triage, it had not been a difficult afternoon's work for John Watson. Slightly boring, in fact, but sometimes boring was quite pleasant. John luxuriated in a stretch that popped his neck. Much, much better.

Compared to the care and feeding of his flatmate in the six weeks following the explosion at the pool with Moriarty, a day at the surgery was a picnic with strawberries and champagne.

John considered himself fortunate to have escaped with a lump on the head and a few scrapes. Sherlock had fared somewhat worse, ending up with a broken right arm that spelled the end of anything resembling peace and quiet for John. Making tea, running baths, wrapping the injured arm in plastic trash bags when it rained: these were all part of John's daily routine. Not about to sacrifice vanity to practicality, Sherlock had refused to shear off even one inch of his dark curls, meaning that John had to wash his hair for him in the kitchen sink. The worst part was having to help Sherlock dress and undress because he refused to wear anything but his tailored clothing, albeit with the right sleeves of several shirts slit carefully along the seam.

That was going to change soon-very, very soon. John put the cast saw into his backpack with a wry smile. Freedom was on the horizon for both of them. It was going to be sweet.

...

"In a hurry to get home, John?" Sherlock asked from his perch on the windowsill. He had managed to tuck his legs against his chest, with his good arm cradling his shins and the bad one held tightly in its sling. John had no idea how Sherlock had made such a pretzel of his limbs, much less if he'd be able to untangle himself later.

"What makes you say that? Oh, the cab. I thought it might rain, and the tube is always a mess at this hour."

Sherlock cast a glance at the blue sky, then back at John. "Perhaps you had time to read my x-ray this afternoon," he suggested. "Your sudden urge to come home at unusual expense implies that the news was good."

"Fair enough. Deduce the results from this." John dropped the backpack, which landed with an unusually loud thud.

"The radiology film wouldn't weigh enough to do that, so you've brought home a cast saw." Sherlock disentangled himself and opened John's backpack as if it were a brightly-wrapped Christmas present. "At last!"

"Congratulations. The fracture has healed sufficiently to release us both from this thing."

Sherlock cocked his head. "I'm not that terrible a patient."

"Call in a jury of my peers and we'll get another opinion." John picked up his materials. "Clear a space on the dining table-" The sudden crash of plates on the floor told him that Sherlock was once again a step ahead of him. "I hope none of that was toxic. Or my dinner."

"Time to sort it out later. Let's get to the matter at hand. My hand. I've waited six bloody weeks."

"And I've counted every second right along with you," John countered. He plugged the drill's cord into the outlet by the sink and gave the machine an experimental whirr. "Okay, just rest your arm on the table, I'll have this off in a couple of minutes."

Sherlock's cool, calculating grey eyes flashed from the round blade to John's face and down to his own arm. "Are you certain this is the correct implement?"

"Of course. Look, I'll run it over my own finger...OH MY GOD!" John screamed, clutching his hand to his chest. Sherlock leapt out of his chair so quickly that it overturned, then John laughed and held up his uninjured finger. "Joke."

Sherlock sat down again and glared at his flatmate. "Your bedside manner is rather macabre."

"Sorry, you can't expect me not to have a little bit of fun with this. Let's do it for real, then, shall we?" John handed Sherlock one pair of protective goggles and put the other over his own eyes. He turned the saw on again and expertly lined the blade up with the edge of the cast. "Won't be long."

Nodding, Sherlock watched as John carved a long, straight line into the cast that had plagued him for the last month and a half. "What is that?" he demanded at the same time John's nose crinkled in distaste at a foul smell coming from the crack in the plaster.

"Bound to be a bit whiffy under there. You can wash up as soon as...almost done. There." John put the saw aside and gently split the plaster open, revealing Sherlock's pale, slightly shriveled forearm.

The greenish bruises were fading nicely enough for John to hum his expert approval as he trimmed away the thin layer of gauze. However, Sherlock's face fell at the sight of the damaged limb. He tried and failed to move his wrist. "Is it supposed to look like this?"

"It's healing quite well, actually."

"Healing? It looks as if it's partially decomposed!"

"Don't make a fuss; I've seen a lot worse, some of which you have placed on this very table. Lay your forearm down again. Don't try to move everything all at once." John gently pulled and prodded in a few places, noting when Sherlock winced or groaned. Not surpringly, the loudest groans indicated mere annoyance while winces meant actual pain. "You'll be fine after a couple of weeks' physical therapy."

Sherlock grimaced as he managed to get his wrist to bend slightly. "When will I be able to play the violin again?"

John bit back the half-dozen retorts that leapt onto his tongue - he was certain that Sherlock could indeed make sounds other than those of a cat choking on popcorn but he hadn't any personal experience listening to them - and chose to pick up a roll of elastic bandaging instead. "You can have a go if you want, but first we ought to wrap you up a bit just to make certain you don't overdo."

"First," Sherlock said primly, holding his arm as far away from his body as he could reach, "I want to rid myself of the stench. I'll be back in a few minutes to finish dressing."

"You're welcome," John replied to Sherlock's retreating form. He began collecting the various chunks of plaster and shreds of gauze to toss into the bin. When he was satisfied that the table was clear, he put the cast saw away with a loving pat of the ceramic blade. Not having to deal with Sherlock when he was unable to bathe, play violin, or even type - it was going to be heavenly.

When Sherlock finally emerged, he had showered and changed into pyjamas, rubbing a towel through his wet hair. "Infinite improvement."

"Let's see the arm again." Sherlock pulled a face but stuck out his arm for inspection. "Not bad, although you've rubbed it a bit raw in spots."

"The stench of the dead flesh was unbearable." Sherlock sniffed at his arm. "I should have kept some skin cells for experiments. Well, I can take them from the cast."

"Binned it," John put in quickly. "It'll be contaminated with chicken vindaloo by now." He wrapped Sherlock's arm in the elastic bandage. "You can take this off to bathe but you need to wear it until you get some of your strength back. A sprain would hurt worse than the original fracture."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Sherlock was off again, bouncing around the flat like a deranged kangaroo. At length he picked up his violin and cradled the case to his chest. "I'll go in the bedroom."

"Here, take this with you." John rummaged around in his backpack and pulled out a small square of brass. "It's a 'welcome back to your arm and my sanity' gift."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock inspected the item. "A practice mute? How did you even know such a thing existed?"

"I didn't. I once had a patient from the instrument auction house near the V&A, and while I cured his infected thumb he told me there was a cure for my violin-related headaches."

Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh. "I did warn you."

"And I should have listened. Now off you get and leave me to read in peace." John all but shoved Sherlock in the direction of his room, then settled down in the armchair with a treatise on stress cardiomyopathy.

John's long workday and a comfortable chair next to the warm fire combined to lull him into a deep slumber. At some point he suffered a nightmare, his limbs twitching as if he could run away from the danger torturing his subconscious. To his surprise, the dulcet tones of an antique Italian violin tugged him from that traumatic state to one of blessed tranquility.

When he awoke in the first light of dawn, John was sure he'd only dreamt about the violin's haunting, sweet melody.

Then he realized that he was blanketed with Sherlock's greatcoat.

John Watson considered himself well and truly paid for services rendered.

…

END


End file.
